Ten Days. John Sheppard

locket was a gift from Carl, and contained pictures of both her parents. Fingering the locket had become a habit in the last several months. Maybe she was trying to somehow connect with them, wish they were here. No, not that, not now. She wished she and her family could go back to better times, and the locket could take them there, she reasoned.

      “What about you and Glenn?”

      “We can’t bring ourselves to talk about it.”

      “We could have only a couple weeks. You have to know what you’re going to do.”

      “We, we just….” Mandy was weeping inconsolably now. Jackie reached out and took her hand. They wept together.

      Finally, Mandy said, “We are hoping the embassy can get us out. Our citizenship is still valid. They can only get a few people out each day, using the chopper pad at the embassy. Because we have a child, they are going to try to bump up our status. The problem is they only have a handful of staff left, we waited too long, and there are still a couple hundred or so Americans here. It’s so hard, because this is home, and we.…” Mandy’s words trailed off.

      Jackie knew the rest. The families loved each other, they were best friends. They had even tried to leave the same day, three months ago. She also knew she had to change the topic for a while. “Let’s just walk in the gardens,” suggested Jackie. “I’ve cried so much lately, I’m surprised I’m not dehydrated.” With that comment, Mandy managed to smile a bit, and the two of them got up to walk the gardens.

      The gardens were Jackie’s joy, her release. She and her mother had planned and redesigned them about the time Mandy and Glenn had moved in. The patio wrapped around a formal garden, with boxwoods framing flowers in geometric patterns. In the center was a large bronze sundial, which had aged to a great green patina over the years. Her mom had really wanted the formal look as a nod to the home’s historic past. Jackie had “won” with the other gardens; they were drifts of her favorite colors and plants. Rather than stiff patterns, these gardens followed the natural lay of the land.

      The two women walked slowly through the gardens. Each cradled her coffee cup in her hands. From time to time, they would stop and sip their now lukewarm coffee. The conversation was more like it had been before the war got so close, about everything and nothing. As they talked, Jackie took a mental note of weeds to be pulled and flowers to be dead-headed to increase the blooms.

      2:16 PM

      Does he have to drone on so? thought Sam. It felt like he had been presenting all afternoon, even though it had only been about forty-five minutes. Did Richard Blankenship really enjoy the sound of his own voice that much? It was always Richard, never Rich, and when he introduced himself to you the first time, it was “Richard Arnold Blankenship the Fourth.” Behind his back, the team referred to him as King Richard the Fourth. He was thin, rather effeminate, with a thin reedy voice.

      Richard was also intelligent and knew it; he delighted in shredding, verbally, anyone who disagreed with him. These daily departmental meetings were his form of mental combat. The purpose of the meetings was to determine what artifacts would be placed in the vault, in the hopes that something of their culture would survive past this war. The vault was located in the basement of the museum. These meetings, shortly after the war had begun, were fairly simple. There had been general agreement as to the major documents and artifacts. Now they were down to personal favorites, and very limited space.

      Richard was arguing his case for two large vases. The vases were a matching set. Five feet tall, they were a deep emerald green, with delicate apple blossom flower patterns over an ornate gold-leaf geometric pattern. Sam had to admit they were beautiful, but she didn’t support the idea that they were reflective of the nation’s history.

      Oops, Patrice Rant had just questioned “King Richard’s” provenance, and verbal war was now at hand. Sam knew this would set her up for a tongue-lashing when she presented. Richard had a “take no prisoners” policy when someone publicly embarrassed him. Although she was guiltless, Sam would pay a price for Patrice’s impudence.

      Midway through Sam’s presentation, Richard interrupted with, “Oh, provenance, provenance, provenance, PROVENANCE, Ms. Carrolton-Logan! I just don’t see the provenance.” Then, in his most sarcastic, venomous tone, “Certainly you don’t expect us to accept some poor quality, grainy photograph as proof that this hideous clock graced the main mantel of the presidential residence, do you?” Before she could answer, he continued, “Letters from that nutcase wife of President Daniels don’t prove anything. She claimed to see the ghost of more than one president in her bedroom.” Then he continued, “She stole a pocket watch from the French ambassador and claimed it was a gift from the English. I wouldn’t trust her to tell me it snowed during the winter.”

      It was true, Sam thought. The photo was of such poor quality, it could be almost any mantel clock on any mantel of any fireplace of the presidential residence. It was also true that Mrs. Daniels was the best source Sam had at the moment. But, another truth was that, for a couple of centuries, the curators of the National Museum of History and Art had accepted as fact the clock was a gift from a European country during the Daniels presidency, and had displayed it as such. The clock had fallen out of favor during a period of revisionist thought in the museum, and until now, there wasn’t enough proof to restore it to the presidential collection.

      While Sam was considering her reply to Richard, he drooled, “Besides, it’s just plain awful. Could you have picked something more butt U-G-L-Y?” The remark caused a ripple of chuckles around the room.

      Sam had to confess, it was ugly, at least by today’s standards. It was tall, almost too tall to really be a mantel clock. The overall height was just short of three feet. Most of the surface was gold leaf, with a large globe above the face of the clock, held up by four classical pillars entwined with olive branches. Male and female figurines were seated above the globe, she with her head resting on his shoulder. The clock itself was housed in a rectangular golden box. With the exception of the round face of the clock, the rectangular box was filled with an array of raised scroll and floral designs. It all rested on a thick black marble base, which was ornamented with several miniature golden wreathes.

      The clock had been chosen by Sam, not because of its beauty, but because of its historical significance. The eighty-year or so period which included the era of the Daniels presidency had been as excessive as this clock. The era was known for its extremes and corruption. It was during that time that the country had really lost its way. As a democracy, they had tried to emulate the pomp and pageantry of what had been the monarchy of their Enemy to the north.

      Garrett Matthews, Dr. Spencer’s assistant, sat quietly in the corner, as he always did. He had suddenly been appointed about seven or eight months ago and no one knew much about him or what exactly he did. Garrett wasn’t an unpleasant man in appearance. He seemed to have a rather athletic build, a full head of light brown hair, and deep-set brown eyes. Sam guessed him to be in his late thirties or very early forties. Like everyone else, she wasn’t totally sure of exactly what he did, but she knew he made her uncomfortable. To her, it was as if he was taking everything in, evaluating, making mental notes.

      3:05 PM

      Jackie took a break from her gardening. She sat on a small stone bench in the formal garden, facing the sundial. Her head was shaded from the late summer sun by a large, wide-brimmed straw hat, and at her feet was a wicker basket with a sampling of flowers from the garden. I’ve got to get these in some water soon, she thought. She added to the mental notes of things to be done within the garden.

      Was all this work worth with it? If the Enemy came in a couple of weeks, would anyone care what she did to make the garden look better? “No,” was the fairly easy answer. So why was she doing it? “It keeps me sane,” was her reply to herself. It, like the housework, was something she could control. The rest of her life was in disarray; here in the garden and in her house, things were in order.

      In the past, their home had been a center for social gatherings. Behind the main house there was what had